Irene Didn’t Flinch. Not When He Grinned Like That, Not When The Lollipop Cracked Against His Teeth,

END.

Irene didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. Didn’t rise to meet the bait like so many did — like Briar wanted her to. She just kept her eyes on the other woman, the corner of the worn label finally peeling back beneath her thumb like paper tired of keeping secrets.

“For fun?” she echoed, tone flat enough to skip.

She set the jar down with a soft clink. Not careless, not reverent — just exact. As if even glass had a place, and she wasn’t in the habit of misplacing things.

“I mend things that don’t belong to me,” she said, matter-of-fact. “I walk places people don’t think to look. I make sure what’s buried stays that way.”

A pause, but not because she was searching for anything. She just wanted the silence to sit there for a moment, thick and quiet and full of things unsaid.

“I’m not here to amuse you,” Irene added, finally lifting her gaze fully to Briar’s. There was no heat in it — just clarity, cool as the bottom of a well.

“And I don’t trade in curiosities.”

She stepped back behind the counter, rolling her sleeves down one at a time, slow and methodical like it was the end of something, not the beginning.

“But you asked. So that’s it. That’s your favor.”

Her hands moved to the ledger again, pen flicking once to mark a line through something unseen, invisible to everyone but her.

“No refunds. No rerolls. If you wanted stories, you should’ve asked for something easier to return.”

Irene huffed — not quite a laugh, but not annoyance either. It was the sound of someone deeply unimpressed by Lucian’s usual theatrics and just as deeply resigned to the fact that they always worked on her anyway. Her hand drifted over the blade in her lap — not gripping, just tracing the flat of it like it might ground her a little further into the present.

“Oh, others, huh?” she echoed, turning to eye him, one brow ticking up like she was weighing whether to roll her eyes or throw him in the lake. “That’s comforting. You do remember you’re not technically allowed to threaten evisceration until after dinner, right? I think that was in the handbook. Section four, maybe five.” Her tone was still dry, but her expression had softened — not quite open, but looser than usual. Lucian had that effect on her. The ability to carve space where the weight let up, even if only in slivers.

“Wait.” She narrowed her eyes, mock-affronted. “Did you just call me slow?”

There was a pause. Then, with theatrical gravity, she shook her head.

“Wow. You’re definitely losing another point for that one. Two more and I no longer like you.” A beat. “Or something.”

It came out lightly, but the joke sat on top of something else — a familiar rhythm between them, years old and still intact despite everything. Despite all the places they’d ended up on opposite sides of the room, the field, the war. The kind of connection that endured not because it was loud, but because it was persistent. Threaded through with too many half-smiles and stupid inside jokes to be anything but real.

And when she glanced over at him again, the edge of her mouth tugged — a rare, fleeting smile that touched more than just her lips. Just for a second. Just because it was him. Because the way he said darling and love didn’t land like it did when other people used it — didn’t ring hollow or honeyed. Just fit. Like a coat she'd never admit was her favorite.

“Mm, all in due time,” she repeated, a little softer now, eyes back on the water. “So..” Her voice dropped to that low lilt she only used when she was trying not to sound too curious. “What are you up to, exactly?”

He laughs, an honestly amused laugh that lacked all the mocking and promised pain they often do. Shrugging a shoulder as he takes in her nudge and words. "Ah well darling, I like keeping my insides inside... but other's... I prefer to pull them out." He says casually, like there's no dark meaning behind his words.

"Besides, had I actually sneak up on you, obvious as I was of my approach, then you probably wouldn't get your own tattoo anyway, love."

Not when they needed sharper instincts, to fight against creatures and monsters much faster and agile that a regular human being was capable of. Vicious in their attacks.

He looks at her, studies her for all of a minute to know there's something bothering her that won't ever make it to his ears. Not now, probably... perhaps when she's ready and willing.

He shrugs once more, playful as he looks back out into the space before them.

"As always, darling, you shall see it in due time." He's working on plenty things. All preparing him for a most delightful hunt.

Irene doesn’t move.

Not when he steps closer. Not when his voice drips that low, jagged warning. Not even when the storm seems to lean in with him, like it, too, wants to see what happens when something snaps.

She just stands there — still and utterly unshaken, like the world’s spun meaner things at her and she’s long since stopped ducking.

Her gaze tracks his approach with the kind of measured calm that doesn’t come from arrogance, but experience — the cruel, quiet kind that’s buried friends and enemies both, and didn’t much flinch at either. Her fingers twitch once at her side, maybe muscle memory, maybe restraint. No visible weapon. No posturing. Just that look. Sharp and old and wholly unimpressed.

At his caperucita, her brow ticks up.

“Cute,” she murmurs. “You practice that one, or just bark it at anyone in red?”

The wind shifts again — hard this time — and her coat flares at the hem like it wants to fly, the scent of iron and wolfsbane rising faint in the air between them. Not fresh-cut. Older. Embedded. She doesn’t need to show him where it’s hidden. That’s the point.

Her voice stays low. Calm. But it cuts cleaner now.

“Funny thing about wolfsbane —” she says, tone drifting like smoke from a slow-burning fire, “— it comes in different forms. Tinctures, powders. Oils that don’t even smell like anything until your lungs start to collapse.”

She steps once, not toward him, not away. Just enough that the gap between them feels sharper. Like it means something more now.

“So I’d be careful.”

Her baby blues narrow, not cruel — just real. Tired in the way only people who’ve survived monsters are tired. “Like I said. You’re not on my list. Yet. But don’t mistake that for mercy.”

Her chin tilts slightly, just enough to read the shape of him again. Rage, hunger, grief all coiled together in a too-tight skin. She’s seen it before. Worn a version of it once. But she’s not about to be the one who breaks first.

“So be a good boy,” Irene says, almost gently. “Back away. Because yeah — maybe I end up with a bite. But you?”

She leans in just a breath, enough that her voice can flatten into something harder beneath the calm.

“You’ll end up dead. No matter the scenario. Odds aren’t in your favor.”

Then, softer again — a shrug of her coat, eyes already turning past him. Dismissal, deliberate and cold.

“And like I said. I don’t make messes I’m not ready to clean up.”

         her whole holier than-wiser than-better than act makes him want to fucking kill her. he supposes coming back home was supposed to mean he was on his best behavior- or at least better than before. before, when he had killed just for the crime of daring to exist, his own bloodlust all-consuming. but this time, he had a reason. she’s provoking him, he’d provoked her. she’s a hunter. that’s reason enough. and it’s not like being on his better behavior had stopped him before. the curse doesn’t care about promises, the wolf even less. the wolf takes his anger, the rage that burns and curls in his chest, spreading to his limbs. his mind had never mattered, logical thinking and inhibitory control skipped right over in favor of emotion, of passion. pride, too. the wolf doesn’t want him walking away, not when he could taste blood beneath his teeth. 

         he can smell the metal she’s got stuffed somewhere on her, wonders how long it could take her to whip out whatever hunter trickery makes her think she can take on a wolf, before he’s got his teeth in her. even somewhat human, dark eyed and feral, he could make the bite lethal. césar doesn’t care about listening anymore, he doesn’t care about nightmares, what she has to say. whatever glimmer of interest, the herb that had glanced through his senses, familiar. he doesn’t give a fuck. all it takes is one relax, pup for his nerves to flare and now, now he’s dangerous. he wants to hold life in his jaw and be the one to take it away, he doesn’t care who it is.

         rough from the growl, his voice reaches a low, raspy tone as it crawls from his throat. dying, vibrating with rage.  “ yeah, i’m done fucking barking. ”  it chokes out with a dry laugh, the thing stifling his words is not hesitation, is not fear, but it doesn’t take any mind reading bullshit to figure that out. his demeanor tells that story, hulking and predatory. that’s his threat, that she couldn’t stop him. she could hurt him, she could kill him, punish him for ruining her pretty fair skin, for making tears spur in judgy blue eyes from the pain. but she couldn’t stop him, not really.

         he walks closer, stalking, doesn’t reach her entirely, and keeps enough space between them that his teeth are kept at bay. for now, for now, for now. just put to the side enough that he’s thinking of blowing right past her, going to bury his teeth into some bunny. to stay alive for avi, to stay alive for teo. maybe it’s the storm that brings out that heart in him.  “ i’m a lot bigger than you, caperucita. what you got that’s so bad? ”  césar doesn’t know why, but he can smell something deeper than the knife.

Irene didn’t answer right away.

Instead, she just watched her—this slip of a person who moved like sunlight had stitched itself into her seams, even soaked and barefoot in the middle of the storm. Irene’s mouth twitched again, that not-quite-smile hanging on like it was waiting for permission.

“I’m not chasing anything,” she said, voice low and even. “I’m just walking.”

The rain had picked up, steady now, but she didn’t move to shield herself. Just let it bead and roll off her coat like she’d forgotten it was supposed to bother her. Maybe she had.

She glanced at Allie’s bare feet and added, “You’re gonna catch something worse than a broken neck out here, though. There’s mud in the drains and runoff like soup.”

A pause.

“But you look happy.” Not a question, not quite an observation —just a simple fact, dropped between them with no particular weight. Like Irene had noticed and decided it was worth naming. She shifted her stance, hands still buried deep in her coat. “Can’t decide if it’s comforting or dangerous.”

Her gaze flicked up to the sky —not the clouds, not the wind, but something behind both. Whatever it was, it wasn’t close yet. But it would be. “I’m not the kind who runs from storms,” she added, more to the sky than to Allie. “But I don’t usually dance in ‘em either.” Finally, her attention dropped back to Allie. Something in her expression had softened —barely, but there. Like moss on stone.

“...Guess there’s a first time for everything.”

         she feels the witch before she sees her, in between some jump and twirl when she catches a warm familiarity in the breeze. the wind’s growing sharper, and she’s not if it’s from the storm, or if it’s stemming from the magic that’s coming just a whisper closer. allie’s reaching for her before she realizes, welcoming her in before allie finds irene’s name written on the signature. allie perks up towards the sound of another voice, eyes bright and searching, her voice even brighter against the rain.  “ break my neck? ”  there’s a lot of things you can break while dancing, but she’d never thought about her neck. allie’s never been careful, but she doesn’t think she could manage that. clumsy, and delighted, she recognizes the voice as a friend. “ oh, irene! you’re here! ”

         with her shoes in her hand, allie nearly skips forward to greet her. even rain-soaked, there’s a warm excitement that blooms inside her. it might’ve been cold, but that didn’t matter nearly as much. besides, the sun was still peeking through, just a little bit. even if a storm was brewing, something big enough to scare her away, she could still enjoy the last glimpses of sunlight.

         “ oh my gosh, are you kidding? i love the rain! ”  her hands fasten, earnestly, behind her back as she rocks forward. with wide, curious eyes, she watches irene.  “ what else would i be chasing? oh, are you a rain chaser? ”  she hadn’t thought so, but she always sorta’ thinks irene’s chasing something. maybe not the rain, but something.

jessica alexander ; joseph sinclair talks

WHO: open to all. WHERE: tūmatarau apothecary

The shop smelled like rosemary and old paper—faint, but enough to catch in your coat and ride home with you. The door creaked open, the chime overhead giving a half-hearted jingle. Wind, maybe. Or someone too late. Irene didn’t look up.

“We closed five minutes ago,” she said, voice flat.

She was bent over a worn-out tablet, the screen casting a cold light across her face. Her thumb drifted down the page —slow, distracted— past rows of items she already knew were running low. She let out a sigh. Not dramatic, not loud. Just tired. The kind you let go of when you're too worn down to hold it in.

Silence followed. Not quite empty, not quite still. The kind of quiet that settles in places where magic hasn’t quite gone to sleep. “Unless it’s urgent,” she said after a moment, slower this time. “And I mean actually urgent. Not I forgot my dreamless tea urgent.”

WHO: @parkskylar WHERE: bun intended

The air still smelled like lavender and old spellbooks—clinging to Irene like second skin even after she’d stripped off her apron and locked the shop behind her. Most nights, she’d go straight home. Avoid people. Avoid…everything. But tonight, the sharp edge in her chest wouldn’t settle, and the idea of silence felt louder than usual.

So she walked. Not far. Just enough to find herself in front of Bun Intended, its neon sign buzzing faintly above the patio lights. The smell of grilled onions and toasted buns curled around her like a hook.

She didn’t even like burgers that much.

Still, a milkshake and fries sounded like something that wouldn’t ask anything of her, so she ordered both, tucked herself into the far end of one of the outdoor benches, and tried to lose herself in the happy chaos of dogs chasing each other through the patio. It helped. A little.

She was halfway through her fries —shoes kicked off, milkshake balanced dangerously on the edge of the table—when she noticed the figure hovering nearby. Looking for a place to sit, scanning the filled tables. Irene didn’t recognize her at first. Just saw someone standing alone, holding a tray like she didn’t know what to do with it.

Irene’s voice came before she could stop it.

“Seat’s open.”

She nodded to the spot across from her, then adjusted her legs to make space, even if she didn’t quite smile.

Irene hadn’t meant to be out this early, let alone in this weather, but something in her had pulled her into the downpour anyway. Maybe it was the pressure in the air, that humming, bone-deep ache that came when storms gathered their skirts and began to spin. Or maybe it was just that sleep hadn’t stuck the way it should, and the silence inside had grown too loud to bear.

She wasn’t dancing. Not really. But she also wasn’t not moving—hands tucked into her coat, hood drawn low, boots soundless on the wet pavement. There was a rhythm to the rain that pulled at her limbs, loosened something usually kept tight. She walked like someone thinking too hard about nothing at all.

And then—motion. A blur of color. A voice, sharp in its brightness.

Irene stopped a few paces away, rainwater trailing slow down her jaw, catching in the curve of her collar. She blinked once, then again, like she wasn’t entirely convinced the figure in front of her was real. And then her mouth quirked—barely—but enough to register.

“You’re gonna break your neck dancing like that.” It wasn’t scolding. It wasn’t teasing either. Just dry, and maybe a little impressed.

Her eyes flicked across the slick street, then back to Allie, still beaming through the storm like it hadn’t dared touch her. Typical. “Didn’t peg you for a rain chaser,” Irene added, quieter this time. “Guess I was wrong.”

She didn’t move to leave. Not yet. The sky hadn’t cracked open wide enough for that.

who: open to anyone wandering about ! ♡ where: Outside . / when: (Very) Early Day One, Hurricane Jac .

         she’d been hoping for rain, hadn’t she? and maybe she always is, but sometimes, it’s different than a want, and closer to a need. like the earth when it thirsts for growth, or a girl that wants to forget, and be washed clean, and forgiven. sometimes, she just needs to grow a little greener, too. and she’s not storm chasing, exactly. when she was younger, she’d tremble right along with the thunder. now, she’s outgrown that, and the talk of a hurricane feels like a distant nightmare that it’d be silly to fear. now, there’s only rain, and her walking takes on an air of wandering soon enough, and then she’s dancing right along with the song the sound of droplets make, the soft call of wind.

         the pavement grows slick under her feet, and in between a twirl and some kind of stumble, she slips. it’s only a moment, a soft breeze that draws an even softer squeal from her, but it does snap her attention away from only whimsy. through the rain, she thinks she can spot another person. like this, the water becomes a mirage, and she thinks they might be dancing too. or maybe it’s just the rain. either way, allie calls out to them with a beaming smile.  “ oh, sorry, i didn’t see you there! ”

She doesn't roll her eyes, doesn’t sigh, doesn’t flinch — doesn’t give him what he wants, and that’s a kind of answer all its own. Irene just watches him for a breath too long, like she’s measuring something invisible in the space between them. Not his strength. Not his bite. But the shape of the wall he’s built and how high he plans to throw rocks from it.

“Spare me the theatrics,” she says, voice low, even. “You’re not the storm, and this isn’t your stage.”

She doesn’t say it unkindly. That would take more energy than she’s willing to give him. Just the plain truth, laid out between them like salt lines on wet stone.

“Cirque du soleil: hurricane,” she repeats, tone dry enough to blister. “Cute.”

She glanced over at him, then back to the dark waters.

“I’ve seen better shows from driftwood and ghost light,” she adds, and there’s something bone-dry in the way she says it — not quite a joke, not quite mockery, but something with teeth behind it. “You burn loud. Doesn’t mean you burn long.”

She shifts the bag again, not because it’s heavy now, but because she’s starting to feel the distance she’ll have to walk. Doesn’t make a move to leave yet. Maybe because something in him still smells like salt and loss, and she’s not done parsing the difference between danger and damage.

“If you want the sea to clap for you,” she says, eyes narrowing just slightly, “— you’d better know how to swim when it pulls you under.”

Then she turns. Not quick — nothing dramatic — but with the slow certainty of someone who already knows if he follows, he’ll talk again. And if he doesn’t, the wind will say enough.

         he rolls his eyes, “ yeah, alright, chiquita. saw that in those judgy lil’ eyes of yours, don’t need to tell me. ”  you talk to much, just you fuckin’ wait. if she’s not walking away by the end of this, he hadn’t succeeded in pissing her off enough. césar’s goal jumps from entertainment to making her ears bleed. it’s likely she’ll turn on her heel, stick that ski slope nose in the air and stomp off. but he’s more interested in what she’ll do if she stays. if he’s earned himself a taste of ice, or if she burns, like he does. césar waves her off, like he’s heard her, like he’s listening. he hasn’t, he isn’t. spite burns instead of understanding, but it’s fierce enough to keep his interest, his attention.

         sure, she doesn’t care about being liked. césar imagined he did, once. knows he did, once, but it’s a time that’s so far away that he hadn’t dare touch it, let alone reach for the memory. eventually, when you’re pushed out, enough, caring fizzles into fury. but it doesn’t mean that anyone else’s opinion matters, only that they should suffer for it. “ what’s earning it look like to you, huh? you want a show? ”  he could give her a show. there’s a thousand dangerous, incredible things someone can do in the water. drowning takes the tippy top of the list for césar, but, well, he’s always been told he has terrible taste. he doesn’t really care, though. the air tastes of magic, the ports to be ruined, that’s enough show for him.  “ cirque du soleil: hurricane? ”

The wind had teeth out here.

Irene hadn’t meant to come this far. She’d walked until the roads narrowed and the town thinned behind her, until her ears were full of the sea’s growl and the storm’s hush. Her boots stuck twice on the walk down to the rental lot, the mud soft and mean beneath the heels. She could feel her wards straining —distant, but tethered still—and every bone in her body whispered that she should turn back.

She didn’t.

The dock looked abandoned, lights off, boats lashed in neat crisscrossed lines like some ritual offering to the waves. Practical. Smart. Not enough to keep anything truly safe. She didn’t expect to see anyone, let alone the figure mid-run at the edge of the dock.

Irene stopped short just as the woman jumped.

Not slipped. Not fell. Jumped. Clean. Deliberate.

It was the sort of motion that knew gravity’s rules and simply chose not to care. The sort of leap that wasn’t meant for onlookers. So when the woman surfaced—sleek, sharp-eyed, at home in a way that made Irene’s skin feel too tight—she held her gaze, because looking away felt wrong. Unkind, even.

“You know,” Irene said, once the silence had grown long enough to deserve words, “Most people call it a day when the storm starts naming things.”

Her voice didn’t carry well over the wind, but she didn’t raise it either. Just enough for the other woman to hear, if she wanted to. Just enough to be real.

She didn’t ask what she was. Didn’t need to. There were some things you didn’t poke with language.

Instead, Irene’s hand found the railing, fingers brushing over the salt-slick wood.

“I won’t stay,” she added. “Didn’t come to interrupt.”

But she hadn’t moved yet, either. The kind of stillness that came from knowing you weren’t the only one who’d come out here to remember something you couldn’t name. Or forget something you couldn’t shake.

Let the sea judge them both.

Who: Open (0/4)

Where: PL Boat Rental

If the wind were still able to fill her lungs, Ha-Jeong knew that it would taste like magic. She knew storms, had sailed in more typhoons than she could count, and this was no natural storm. But she found that she cared little for its origin. She was reminded of her centuries at sea. How she had volunteered herself for solo deck duty in almost every storm the ship had seen. It had been a selfish move as much as it had been a logical one. Her body could simply withstand more than her human crewmates, but she had also loved the feeling of being swept up in something so much bigger than herself.

She sat on her dock, the humans she usually employed to run the place summarily dismissed and sent to safer pastures. She had gone around on her own and spider tied all vessels that hadn’t been stored on racks or in the 3 operating boat houses. The dock rocked beneath her, undulating with the sea.

Ha-Jeong stood and started to remove her jacket. The other haenyeo used to call her ‘ineo’ when she had spent her decade on Jeju. That was perhaps her favourite way she had spent the 90s. She cocked her head from side to side as she took a starting position. If she was honest with herself those ladies hadn’t been the only people to accuse her of having a more aquatic than human nature. Ironic for this was perhaps the one human idiosyncrasy she had left, as she ran towards the edge of the dock, wind running through her hair, she was reminded of a little girl centuries ago who would have done the same.

As she flew over the water, the tumultuous storm current sipping around her body, she felt a presence appear behind her on the dock. As the water welcomed her, an embrace no colder than her own, she quickly broke through the surface to meet the eyes of someone who was either just brave or just stupid enough to witness her in her human indulgence.